


A Cautionary Tale

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Comics), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Object Insertion, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10913889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: "Shove one of my trinkets up my ass," Yondu said."It'll be fun," Yondu said.In which Kraglin has fun, Yondu has fun, and everyone has oh-so-many regrets.





	A Cautionary Tale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedRarebit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRarebit/gifts).



> **A pervy oneshot that I had to get out of my system, after noticing the egg on Yondu's dash...**

It would be easier to blame this on the drink if they were actually drunk. But Yondu had three swizzlers brewing in his belly – not enough to make a man with a self-professed adamantium liver tipsy, let alone blotto.

So he alone was culpable, as he crowded Kraglin against the elevator wall, belt buckles clinking and leather strips catching, and tipped his head roughly to one side so he could hiss in his ear:

“Y'know them shinies ya bought me at the last station? Want you to stick 'em up my ass.”

Kraglin looked more concerned with the logistics than Yondu's sanity. He'd given up on that a long time ago.

“Um. How'll we get 'em out again?”

“We'll figure that out when we get to it.”

“I dunno, cap'n...” Kraglin shifted uneasily, his ribs digging into Yondu's chest. When Yondu leaned on him it felt like he was being stabbed in slow-motion. “This don't seem like yer brightest idea...”

Pessimist. Yondu dismissed his concerns with a nip to Kraglin's earlobe, pulling until the skin stretched and Kraglin squeaked. “All my ideas're bright, fuck you very much, Obfonteri. Now let's put this plan into action.”

First however, a relocation was needed. Yondu liked to keep a modicum of mystery about his personage on-ship – which meant butchering any crewmen who spoke up about captain and first mate getting frisky, smacking away Kraglin's hands when they wandered for his ass in public, and saving all gropes and cheeky squeezes for the elevators (or at least the darker corners of the Bridge).

With that in mind, he turned on the sweating rookie. She stood behind the lift's doors, vibrating with her eagerness to escape. Teeth bared in a friendly threat display, Yondu stalked to block her exit.

“So, honey? See anything interestin'?”

The rookie was suitably wide-eyed and trembly – made Yondu's old heart go fond. But there were already too many cute things in his collection. Quill caused more than enough trouble; boy didn't need a playmate.

Not when he had his precious _Guardians_ to cook him breakfast and cuddle him and coddle him, and all those other dumb, sentimental, _family-_ things Yondu had never allowed himself to be weakened by...

But anyway. He was getting distracted. If Yondu had refused to sabotage his rep for one tiny, precious Terran, a rookie had no chance.

Luckily, she wasn't stupid. “No sir!” she barked.

Behind Yondu, Kraglin sniggered. “Looks like ya won't be redecoratin' today sir.”

Yondu snorted. “Shame. I ain't too fond of this lift...”

Which was the girl's cue to run before he changed his mind. Had they been mid-transit, she'd have had a hard job. The lift shafts were hazardous places, grizzly with rust and the charred skids of lift-boxes past. If you clambered out mid-journey you risked being decapitated by a snapping chain.

Yondu'd had an overhaul on his books for years. He might've gotten away with it too, if it weren't for those meddling Guardians.

The elevator cranked to a halt, unoiled pulleys screeching high above. The automatic door function was misbehaving – _another price on the repair tally_ – but it was nothing a solid boot couldn't fix. Smirking, Yondu waved to the corridor.

“Ladies first?”

The girl didn't quibble. She fled. And while Yondu's laughter followed her, his whistle didn't.

“Sir,” said Kraglin, lounging against the rail as Yondu punched the number for their own deck. His voice was drawly with reproach. “Ya shouldn't scare the greenies. Else they'll desert, an' we'll wind up short of canon fodder.”

He had a point. Didn't mean Yondu had to listen to it.

“Barely got the cash to cover runnin' costs as is,” he griped instead, once the doors had resealed and the grind of the winding mechanism was all any eavesdroppers would hear. “At this rate, we won't be doin' anything more dangerous than weedin' Nova Prime's flowerbeds. Thas about all the work we can source right now.”

“What, after the orb gig?”

Yondu froze. “Whaddid you say?”

“Nothin', sir." Kraglin was mimicking the girl: shying away, looking anywhere but his captain. What was cute on her was infuriating on the man Yondu had named as his second, through thick and thin, sickness and health, til death they fucking part.

“You sayin' the reason our job reservoir's run dry is because I let Quill get the drop on me? You sayin' I gone soft? That what yer saying, Obfonteri?”

Kraglin's eyes snapped up, locking on Yondu with rare irritation. Precisely the reaction he'd been hoping for. “No sir! Fuck's sake, it were just a throwaway. Weren't thinking about what I was yapping about...”

Yondu sneered, lip ticking over his bright metal canine. Then, once the tension was palpable, he broke into a chortle that made Kraglin jump higher than if he'd flipped his trenchcoat off his arrow.

“No changes there, Kraggles,” he said, clapping a hand on Kraglin's shoulder. “No changes there.”

 

* * *

 

Their floor was deserted – as it ought to be, except in emergencies. Should enemies mount an attack, gunports would prong from the ceiling. Within the space of two minutes this deck, like every other one that shared a wall with the _Eclector's_ hull, would become a red-lit abattoir, teeming with tussling Ravagers and their foes.

Yondu waited a second before stepping from the rocking elevator carriage. Just in case. But for once, the galaxy was on his side. No proximity alarm blared, no sirens wailed, no automated voice shrieked 'breach, breach, breach' at a pitch calibrated to wake him even after he'd passed out from a booze-fest and a fuck.

They were safe.

 _For now,_ he should probably add, because _safety_ was a finite and ephemeral thing where Ravagers were concerned. But you didn't survive in this job as long as he had by wasting time worrying about the future or faffing over what had past.

Yondu focused on the here and now. The present: him and Kraglin stumbling through half-lit corridors, honing on their cabins, steps jumbling and legs tangling, almost falling as they rocked together and kissed and struggled to cackhandedly strip their leathers all at the same time.

And, of course, the immediate prospect of having his favorite toys wedged where the sun didn't shine. It got Yondu hot just thinking about it.

Given the tidbits of information that he'd fed to Kraglin over the years – namely that a), he was a hoarder of shiny things, and b) that he liked taking it up the ass a helluva lot more than he let on – this wasn't surprising.

Yondu could count the nights this astral year when he _hadn't_ growled for Kraglin to pound him through the nearest horizontal surface (discounting nights where they'd been on a job, facing a mutiny, or simply been too darn tired; and discounting horizontal surfaces populated by the rest of the crew) on one hand. However, he and Kraglin had been together for years now – an embarrassing amount of them.

They might not have always _termed_ it as 'togetherness'. They might've had their ups and downs – a nervous crew shepherded off-bridge so Captain and First Mate could belt at each other in peace; the occasional week of unannounced leave where Yondu woke to a cold bed and an empty space besides his in the M-ship hangar; a month spent without so many words exchanged as a 'yessir', a 'nosir', and a 'fire on my command'.

The point wasn't that they broke. The point was that no matter how thin-stretched, and no matter how deep the battlescars left by their job and each other, Yondu and Kraglin always wound up here: Kraglin sprawled over Yondu's bed like a dropped handful of sticks, captain on his lap and a tongue in his mouth.

A trail of clothes led out the open door, back towards the lift. All Yondu had on him was scars, skin and arrow harness. Kraglin's fingers had been slapped away before they could prise open that last clasp. As Yondu pulled back with a last bite to Kraglin's underlip, his mate's spit shining on his lips, and straddled Kraglin's crotch looking every bit as regal as Nova Prime herself, he unfastened the straps himself, watching Kraglin the whole while.

Boy seemed damn near entranced by the shift of light over leather, worn supple by years of being fed through the buckle. The harness poured from Yondu's fingers, arrow tumbling over the bedside.

It was only a metaphorical disarming. It'd take a gag and a lot more sadism than Kraglin had stomach for to make Yondu _truly_ helpless. But he appreciated the effort nevertheless – the cock leaking over his hairy stomach affirmed it.

Yondu purred at the sight. “You all ready for me, boy?”

Kraglin's eyes slivered shut. His hips jerked before Yondu wrapped his hand around him – although that could be because Yondu was taking his sweet time, torturing Kraglin with the warmth of his palm as it hovered only millimeters away.

Pride stirred lust when, rather than squirming so that his cock smacked off Yondu's fingers, or – worse yet – making to grab himself, Kraglin just _held it,_ skin tight to wiry muscle, and _waited_. Waited on his captain's order.

“Always ready for you, sir,” he breathed.

Oh, he was a smart cookie. Knew exactly what Yondu wanted to hear and how he wanted to hear it. Everything about him was calibrated for his captain's pleasure, from his posture – limbs at tense angles, shaky with the effort of resisting bowling them over and taking what he wanted; to his expression – horny and frustrated yet so impeccably trusting. Like Yondu was one of them three-dimensional holopuzzles Kraglin liked to download onto his datapad and fiddle with while they manned Bridge through the graveyard shift, when the ship was silent bar the measured drone of the engines and the fizzle of asteroids off their forcefield.

As if all Kraglin needed to do was behave in the right manner, say the right thing. Push his buttons one by one and crank his starter-motor.

Well. Yondu never liked being predictable.

If Kraglin could feel the heat of Yondu's hand, Yondu could feel that of his dick. It warmed his palm, the pump of hot blood almost visible. Hraxians sprouted nice fat knots when you got 'em going, but without any friction Kraglin's had yet to swell. Yondu brushed the loose fold around Kraglin's base, split nails catching on hair.

His reward was a moan, a hitching gasp, the clench of muscle in Kraglin's scraggly thighs as his mate forced himself not to thrust.

Self control like that deserved reward. He gave Kraglin five pumps, brisk and firm, scratching tender skin with his pilots' calluses.

Kraglin's head tossed back. Feet planted flat on the mattress, he strained into each squeeze of Yondu's fist.

Yondu rode out the bucks with the ease of any man at his hundredth rodeo. Then, smile wolfish, he pinched Kraglin's cockhead, squeezing precum from the spongey tip.

“For me? Aw, you shouldn't have.”

Kraglin managed a laugh. He had one arm thrown over his face, pit hair curling out of its hollow. Rake-thin and beak-faced, chest dappled with flush, he wasn't the most attractive. Yet somehow, over the years, Yondu's body had trained itself to respond to him.

All of him – bad breath, knifescars, abundance of leg-hair... The sight of him stretched out beneath him was a lit taper, and Yondu was more than happy to burn.

Scooching rearwards until his ass rested on knobbly knees, Yondu ducked to nose along where his hand had just been pumping. Kraglin smelt ripe all over, here in particular. But hey – no point hitting the showerblocks if they were just gonna get dirty again.

Really, they oughta get a move on. The universe had a limited amount of lenience it afforded them – time snatched in between explosions, jobs, mutinies, small scared Terrans bursting in on them, who Yondu'd been dumb enough to give access to his biolock...

At least that last one was no longer a problem. But Yondu held no fantasies about the galaxy's ability to cockblock him. He'd prefer to coax out his orgasm before the inevitable.

“C'mon already,” he murmured, peering along the concave swoop of a stomach. Kraglin's cock split his vision into two distinct fields.

Kraglin had crunched up to watch him, anticipatory without ever being demanding. When, rather than sucking his prick to the back of his throat, Yondu just blew sour air over him and smirked, Kraglin knew better than to complain.

“What d'you want from me, sir?”

There he went. Doing it again. Being so stars-damned fucking _perfect._ Yondu fought the urge to shiver.

“I told ya, didn't I. I want you to stuff my ass with shinies, Obfonteri. Then I want ya to push me belly-down an' fuck 'em in deep. Think you can handle that, boy?”

No more bitching about negative health effects or unforeseen consequences. Yondu's words, each syllable breathed directly onto Kraglin's cock, made his abdomen wind tight under its hairy pelt and his hands clutch the sheets.

“Yes _sir!_ ”

Saying 'love it when ya call me that' would be redundant. Kraglin already knew.

Yondu rolled off him and headed for the desk. Like most other items in the room, it bowed beneath a crooked mountain of trinkets. Plastic, metal, diamond. Igneous rocks, red and gold ingots smelted together from years spent smoldering in the hearts of near-extinguished stars. Figurines and Nova badges from Xandar. Glittering snowglobes pickpocketed off stalls on Morag, before the core destabilized and the planet descended into a volcano-wracked nightmare, inhabitable only for Kree watchdogs and Infinty Stones.

He looked over the lot of them, until his gaze snagged on ginger hair.

The troll doll.

Yondu must've been staring too long, because next moment a chin hooked over his shoulder, arms snaking around his chest. “Not that one?” Kraglin asked, after a moment's quiet.

“Not that one,” Yondu agreed. He made to shoulder Kraglin off and move away. But Kraglin dug his chin against Yondu's clavicle to keep him still. His hand closed around his fist, finding it hard and furled.

Kraglin tugged at his fingers, prising them free one by one. Then he guided his hand, moving it like the grabby-claw at one of the rundown casinos Quill had insisted they visit every time they swung by a trading port whether he was thirteen or thirty.

Kraglin shifted it to hover above a familiar blue frog. It was the same one Yondu'd acquired from the broker, back when he still thought this was just another case of Quill getting cold feet, and that the boy'd go fuck a few whores and steal a few small and valuable items, before deciding life as a lone ranger was boring. Then he'd swan back onto the _Eclector,_ claiming he deserved a payrise and demanding that Yondu admit that he'd missed him...

Kraglin grimaced. He moved their clasped hands away. “Not that one either.”

 

* * *

 

Eventually, a selection was made that didn't make captain's shoulder muscles tense like he'd been tasered. A bejewelled egg, studded with cabochon garnets and rubies.

Kraglin worried it might be too rough – but a stroke reassured him that the stones had been polished, making the egg an ovoid of bobbly textures that, Kraglin had to admit, would feel pretty damn sweet on the inside.

“Alright sir?” he asked, nudging Yondu towards the bed. Yondu nodded, juggling the egg from hand to hand. Kraglin let him take a step away, so engrossed in the swivelling toss of the toy that he didn't notice the prickle of cool air over the wet patch on his lower back.

Kraglin's cock, tipped with matching dampness, throbbed as he took his captain in. Compact torso, wound around with scars and faded old tattoos. Muscle that had yet to sag, but which wasn't as rock-solid as it used to be. A bit of a tum, scruff round his jaw, and a damn pert ass for a man who'd seen as much of the galaxy – and been fucked by as much of it – as Yondu had.

“On your belly, sir?” he said, just to reiterate. Yondu only had time to nod before Kraglin kicked his feet from under him, depositing him on the mattress with a bounce and an 'oof'. His grin, when Yondu twisted to glare, was pure mischief. “Gotta obey cap'n's orders.”

“Yeah you do.” Yondu dragged himself along the bed, scooping a pillow from the headboard to wedge beneath his hips. The egg he handed back to Kraglin, ass waggling in a taunt that was too exaggerated to be strictly _sexy,_ although it made Kraglin's cock lurch nevertheless.

If he plumped up his knot, it'd be wider than the circumference of the egg at its largest point – but not by much.

Kraglin palmed apart Yondu's buttocks. He pressed on either side of his entrance.

He knew raising doubts would only make Yondu more determined. And if he got it into his head that Kraglin was calling his courage into question, he wouldn't say _slow down_ or _stop_ even if Kraglin shoved the egg in hard enough to burst his pouch. 

“Gonna need lube,” he mused, testing with a dry push of an index. “Ain't feedin' this into you dry.”

Yondu flapped at the bedside cabinet, impatient as ever. But while Kraglin could play with his captain's ass for hours, given half the chance, when you signed up to fuck Yondu you got the whole package: a short temper, an inability to keep still, and low warning whistles should you ignore his demands for _more_.

Kraglin wouldn't want it any other way. He rested the egg on the mattress, between Kraglin's knees. He patted an asscheek, stroked his perineum one more time just to see him squirm, and unfolded from the bed to fetch their trusty tube.

Getting Yondu open and ready was wonderfully easy. Knowing a partner's body so intimately that you could say with certainty when you had to work your tongue into them slow, parting their pucker one lick at a time, and when you could jam three fingers in raw and still have them moaning, was a gift Ravagers usually didn't live long enough to cherish.

But today it only took a stroke and a push. Kraglin had his longest finger buried to the root in hot blue silk. The lube made it effortless – on both their parts, judging by Yondu's kick and the barked order:

“Gimme another already!”

Kraglin was only too happy to comply.

He ran the cool egg over Yondu's thighs, pressing beneath his balls with its tip, rolling the knobbled surface up and down his cock like a massage ball. All the while, his fingers kept up their steady scissor, rotating after every firm tug at Yondu's channel.

His prick was damn near burning. But captain liked his mate to control himself – and, as Kraglin had come to learn, he liked to be controlled. He could hold it, and he'd relish the cramp until he had permission to cum.

“We're gonna have to tie string round this or somethin'.” He splayed his fingers, bringing up the egg to poke its tip between them. It was cold and hard in comparison, and Yondu made a delicious noise, muscle flexing in welcome. “Ain't gonna come back otherwise.”

“Don't want no awkward trips to doc,” Yondu agreed, with a hitch to his breath. Kraglin pulled away, dropping the egg to roll under him again as he rummaged through the bombsite of Yondu's desk.

There wasn't much in the way of a filing system. Yondu Got Shit Done, especially when that Shit involved fighting, threatening, or thieving. But captaincy mandated a certain amount of _paperwork:_ jobs to be personally okayed, clients to be wined and dined and convinced of the Ravagers' dubious repute, marks to be scoped out, staked out, and occasionally smoked out too. While Yondu had yet to fall dangerously behind on those tasks, he was infamous among their small circle of hired penpushers for skipping out on mission sign-offs when there was a raid to be fronting. Whenever he graced the Bridge one could usually be found trailing at his heels with a towering stack of datapads, begging his bio-signature. Kraglin, taking pity on their plight, tended to be a good influence on his captain (withholding sex did wonders for motivation.)

However, he could only mitigate the worst of the chaos. The results – a desk dedicated predominantly to the display of a hundred glittering trinkets with its work-function only an afterthought, datapads pushed into the corners, dangling off the edges, or laying stomped on the floor – spoke for themselves.

“You need a spring clean, sir.”

“Huh.” Yondu managed to stop himself from saying 'Get Quill to do it.' Just.

Kraglin retrieved the string with all due haste. Last thing he wanted was for captain to follow _that_ train of thought.

Things between the admiral and his sort-of-pet, sort-of-son had soured during the last months of Quill's tenure with the Ravagers, almost beyond recognition. There'd been shouting. Lots of shouting. Exchanged blows too, whether Captain and Terran had opened a bout in the ring or otherwise. Even the occasional whistle.

But fighting was per-the-course – in a world where _sentiment_ meant _weakness,_ sometimes fists were all you had. A punch said _I'm angry and upset_ far more eloquently than words.

Punches hadn't soothed that rift though. And now Peter was off who-knows-where doing who-knows-what. He hadn't called. He hadn't dropped a line to tell them he was alive. He hadn't even sent a digital postcard over the holonet, showing his new family reclining on some sunny beach in Novaspace, with _wish you were here_ scrawled on the reverse.

It was as if he'd forgotten about them – dropped out of their lives. And while Kraglin, personally, wasn't adverse to that – he'd never been fond of the brat, or the way Yondu got goo-goo-eyed over him – he had to admit that he disliked the effect Peter's desertion had had on his captain.

An effect that, while it couldn't be _remedied_ with an egg up the ass, might at least be forgotten about for a little while.

With that thought in mind, Kraglin produced the string with a flourish – albeit a redundant one. Yondu was on the bed where he'd left him, squirming his cock against the pillow, rhythm lost in his eagerness.

He stood a moment, just admiring. There was nothing quite like the slide of light across a sweating back, cupping the curve of Yondu's spine and the globes of his ass in warm liquid gold.

Yondu, of course, ruined it when he twisted, scowling over a brawny blue shoulder. “You gonna stand there all night? Or do you wanna put it in me?”

There was only one answer to that. Kraglin clambered onto the bed, fishing out the egg and lashing on its leash, clumsy with haste. He smoothed up Yondu's spine, following the longest scar until he could squeeze his nape and coax him to lay facedown once more. Then it was a hasty dollop of lube squeezed directly onto the egg itself, a brief jiggle round Yondu's hole to test the slack, and...

Kraglin had to choose between gripping Yondu's hip to steady him and tugging his own cock. Because by the stars, that was a perfect visual: Yondu arched up, arms stretched over his head to wring the bed bars, eyes scrunched shut and mouth agape as the egg tip pierced him.

It was relentless. The thickening of the girth was less extreme than when Kraglin wedged Yondu on his knot. But at its widest, the egg shared a diameter with Kraglin's fist, and didn't narrow off that quickly afterwards either.

He'd elected to push it inside of him with the bluntest end to the rear, so Yondu had each little pop of a jewel to prepare him for the widest stretch. But in hindsight, that might've just prolonged the torture.

The string, already shoddily tied, threatened to be squeezed off every time Yondu gasped. Kraglin realigned it, hooking it behind a gem in the hopes that'd hold it fast. To tell the truth, his attention was elsewhere – on the rapid swell and contraction of Yondu's ribs beneath the meat of his back, and the high keening wheeze of his breath.

“K-Kraglin -”

Kraglin was tempted to ask if he wanted it out. But it was best not to give Yondu the option. They were just past the widest point; it'd only be more painful to extract it.

Yondu's hole looked paper-thin. It was stretched taut, snug and watertight, the egg's jewel-crusted bottom a mound just large enough to cup. Kraglin did so, nudging Yondu's legs wider. He dug the heel of his thumb into his lower back, praying for him to relax. There was so much he wanted to tell him.

_You can do this, I know you can. You're strong. You're tough. You wanted this, and yer gonna get it, because cap'n always gets what he wants._

But voicing those thoughts might be seen as _softness._ And tough or not, if Yondu donkey-kicked Kraglin right now, he might knock out a few of his first mate's teeth, but he'd rip his ass open in the process. Then there'd be hell to pay.

Only one thing for it. Yondu was still shifting, still shuddering, still sucking air through his teeth like he'd been shot. It looked almost like he was trying to lay the damn egg rather than contract it deeper. Kraglin had to do this fast.

“Comin' in sir,” he grunted – because he'd learnt the hard way that not informing Yondu of your plans in the bedroom led to arrows jabbing sensitive places. “Say 'aah'.”

That startled a laugh. Then, as predicted, an 'aah' – a very loud one, as Kraglin shifted to Yondu's side and dealt the base of the egg a spank.

Pop.

The 'aah' trailed into a groan, then a _moan –_ a low and relieved sound of satisfaction. Kraglin thanked the stars it wasn't a whistle.

He petted Yondu's trembling flanks, greedily palming his belly, chasing the small swell in his abdomen which attested to the egg inside. Kraglin's cock was erect to the point of back-curved, precum drizzling through his pubic hair in an endless stream. And he was gratified to note, when he passed a testing hand under Yondu's legs, that the pain hadn't softened his captain any either.

Gratified, and more than a little lusty. And – well, captain had ordered him to fuck him, hadn't he?

He crawled over Yondu's parted calves, noting how his toes curled as Kraglin's movements made the mattress shift and forced Yondu to adjust around the toy. His cocktip was a slim thing, pointed like a dog's. Fitting it was always deceptively easy – a false sense of security that belied the knot that was to follow.

Kraglin didn't think he'd be wedging that in Yondu today though. His rim already looked puffy and sore, and if Cap'n couldn't sit on his throne come morning-shift he'd dedicate himself to making Kraglin's life a misery.

With that thought in mind, Kraglin wrapped one hand around his knot, squeezing to mimic the hole he was about to enter. He positioned himself. Then, after giving Yondu a probe to check he was still up for this – the toss of the head and the desperate backwards shunt of his ass said _yes_ – he followed the egg in.

It was slow-going. It hadn't progressed that far inside him – Kraglin had to work it along carefully, budging it with his cockhead while Yondu bit holes in the pillow and cursed him five ways to Titan Crag.

But eventually, the deed was done. The egg hung heavy in Yondu's gut. Yondu's hands were petrified into claws, clutching the bars so tight they creaked, while Kraglin's knot sat flush to the smooth scale-like skin on his captain's perineum. He swore he felt those scales flare, as Yondu hissed and clicked in his hometongue, buttocks rubbing the knot and channel a squeezing glove.

Not quite as _tight_ a glove as normal. But given the size of the egg that'd preceded him, Kraglin could forgive that. He could forgive anything Yondu did, said, or threatened, in fact, so long as he'd stay like this for a few more minutes: pliant and warm beneath him, arching into every thrust.

So all in all, as Kraglin crooked one knee and positioned himself so that he might piston into Yondu's ass at an angle, forcing the egg ever deeper, he could be forgiven for missing the loose string that slithered out to puddle on the bedclothes, slippery with lube.

 

* * *

 

“Well,” said Doc Mijo. “It's not the _stupidest_ thing someone's come to see me about.”

She sounded like she was trying to reassure him. Yondu, by default, was incensed. But he'd been incensed ever since Kraglin pulled out, paused a moment, and said “oh.”

A very small, very poignant “oh.”

An “oh.” that had made Yondu rightfully wary, even dazed from the high of an orgasm, which had been brutally pummelled from him by the grind of Kraglin's cockhead over his prostate, his knot against his ass, and the egg against his lower intestine.

“Oh?” he'd repeated. Then, when that got no response, more dangerously: _“Oh,_ Kraggles?”

When Kraglin jizzed, he did it by the bucketload. Watery stuff too, not like Yondu's thicker gloop, which could be used as cement if left out in the sun to dry. Hence the knot. It kept a Hraxian's partner plugged full of the stuff until, should they be cursed with corresponding reproductive bits, the seed had stewed in their systems long enough to inseminate.

Yondu felt, as ever after their sex, more than a little sloppy around the edges. But the prospect of waddling to the bathroom while the egg was still rammed up there wasn't appealing – at least, not when he was already oversensitized, twinging from the creamy trails that slicked him ass to knees.

“C'mon, what'chu waitin' for. Get it out while I'm still relaxed, or it'll be a helluva job...”

“Yeah, ya could say that,” said Kraglin. He made no move to extract the egg.

Yondu, figuring it couldn't be any different from wrenching the emergency ripcord on an M-ship engine, reached into the sticky mess, grumbling about having to do every damn thing himself. He dug fingers through leaking jizz in search of the string.

When, after five minutes of increasingly aggravated probing, he had yet to find it, he turned instead on Kraglin.

“Take it out, Kraggles.”

Kraglin's face was more pinched than that time he'd gotten it wedged in the _Warbird's_ malfunctioning door. He wrung his hands, rotating helplessly at the ends of lanky wrists. “I... I don't think I _can..._ ”

Yondu breathed in. Yondu breathed out. Yondu pincered the skin between his eyebrows until it _burned,_ and tried not to imagine how easy it would be to kill his mate. “Get out,” he said gruffly.

Kraglin jumped, soft cock flapping over his knot. It looked all kinds of hilarious. Shame Yondu wasn't in a laughing mood; he'd have to bank the image to chuckle at once this had blown over. “A-are you sure? You don't want me to stay and help -”

“Help what? Me take a dump? I can manage that without you holding my hand, _sweetheart._ ”

As ever, the petnames only came out when they were laced with acid. Kraglin flinched, eyes flicking to his boxers, which dangled from the rusty old light casing.

“Can I at least get those -”

“Yer room's just across the hall. I'm sure ya can survive one lil' walk of shame. Now fuck off, darlin', before I _make you._ ”

Yondu rarely gave an order twice. Three times would be unprecedented – and Kraglin, eyes wide as those of any prey species, scoped the arrow and saw it had started to glow. “I'll. Uh. I'll see ya tomorrow sir?”

“If I ain't butchered yer scrawny ass and fed what lil' meat you got to the galley by then.”

“Right.” Kraglin still dithered though, one hand on the door panel, the other cupping his junk with the awkwardness that came from a sexcapade-gone-wrong. “You are okay though sir. Yeah?”

Anyone else – as if he'd _be_ in this dumb situation with anyone else – and Yondu'd have snapped at them. Maybe even whistled.

But this was Kraglin. And while the boy was mighty good at following orders, every so often he'd get it into his head what his captain _needed_ and what his captain _wanted_ were two separate things.

A crock of bullshit, in Yondu's opinion. He was a transparent sorta guy – he knew his own ins and outs, knew when he wanted to ride cock and when he wanted to have his sucked, knew when the fire in his chest could be sated by a bloody bout with knuckledusters in the training rings or when he needed a solo offship, where he could skewer hired goons and get paid for the pleasure. Right now, he wanted Kraglin out so he could swear, punch pillows, and strain over the fold-out toilet (and maybe panic a little too), all in relative privacy.

Kraglin no doubt interpreted this as 'capain needs hand holding'. Unless Yondu sufficiently reassured him, his mate would plonk his ass down outside his door, butt-naked and cum-spattered, and refuse to budge come mutiny or asteroid collision.

There was only one thing for it. Yondu forced a grin.

“Course I am, jerkass. Don't think I'm lettin' you off lightly though – once I've got this out, yer gonna give it one hell of a bath. Me too, I think.”

And so, there he sat. On his own bed, not having dared face the zombie-shuffle to the medbay under the confused and amused gazes of his crew.

He'd had the decency to air the place, setting the fan regulators to blow until the steamy smells – sex, lube, sweat – had dissipated to a level better suited to a captain's cabin.

Easiest way would've been to crank the portal window open. They weren't in atmosphere, but Yondu had still been tempted.

All in all though, he wasn't sure why he'd bothered. He couldn't exactly pretend he'd shoved the egg up there solo, or that it was just for the shits 'n' giggles. And now Mijo was eyeing him with that curious concoction of humor, exasperation, fondness and pity that Kraglin and Quill both wore whenever Yondu landed himself in trouble. And Yondu couldn't even murder her, because then where'd he be?

Stuck with an egg up the ass and no doctor to help him, that's where.

This was all Kraglin's fault.

“This's Obfonteri's fault,” he said.

“I'd figured.” Mijo limped closer. She pressed on his abdomen – and Yondu, flopped grouchily over his jizz-stained pillow stack, let her.

He'd rinsed out a bit, just because medical professional or otherwise it weren't really fair to force Mijo to poke and prod around amidst Kraglin's goo. And while Yondu usually eked some small delight from tormenting those around him, upset doctors meant mysteriously depleted painkiller stocks next time you showed up hugging a gutshot and requiring surgery.

...Oh god, Yondu _really_ hoped he didn't require surgery.

“Well?” he asked, trying to sound cavalier about the whole thing. “What's the verdict, doc?”

If Mijo noticed the quaver, she could blame it on his fucked-up vocal cords like everyone else. 

Not that he was _worried_. Just. Y'know. If that stars-damned egg perforated something, he wouldn't be able to sit on Kraglin's cock for _weeks._ Yondu couldn't have that.

Mijo sighed, levering herself onto Yondu's seldom-used workchair and propping her gammy leg on the bed. Yondu nodded to it, because long pauses were Bad Business where things-stuck-up-your-bunghole were concerned.

“Why don'tchu just chop it off an' get a mechanical replacement?”

“It's a cultural thing. You wouldn't understand.” Probably not. Alpha Centauri-IV had all sorts of dumb rules regarding the _purity of the physical form,_ preaching about how _only whole warriors are accepted by Anthos._ But Yondu hadn't visited his homeplanet in a very long time. He grabbed Mijo's hand.

“Tell me I ain't gonna need a new metal butt.”

That made her lips twitch up. Yondu'd never been able to get a good read on her eyes – there were five of 'em, spaced at intervals around her face that Quill had once described as 'Picasso-esque'. But her smile at least was unmistakable.

“You won't need a new metal butt, sir. Although if you're interested, there are some very shiny models in last month's issue of the Intergalactic Medical Almanac...”

As tempting as it was to make his 'buns of steel' literal, Yondu had Kraglin's party-piece to think of. He shook his head.

But the tension was broken. When Mijo flicked the inside of his knee, encouraging him to spread his legs and let her see the damage, he didn't complain.

 

* * *

 

“No sex for a week,” was the first thing Yondu said, stomping into the elevator the next morning. Kraglin, nervously side-eyeing him for signs of a still-trapped egg – and finding none; only hiked shoulders and the thousand-yard stare that meant Yondu had walked through hell and back without him – immediately started fussing.

“That bad? By the stars, what happened? Did she have to cut you open?”

“No, jackass!” Yondu slapped away the hands that tried to skate over his uniform, testing for damage. Like Mijo'd let him out of her sight with an unsutured slice in his belly. “She gave me a goddam laxative and I spent the night being _very fucking miserable_. And thinkin' up new inventive ways to kill ya slow – just in case you're considerin' a snappy comment right now.”

Kraglin shut his mouth. Wise lad.

“So,” Yondu continued, hands on hips and fire in his eyes, “if you try and stick anything up there for the next seven days, yer liable to get a bit more than ya bargained for.”

Kraglin pulled a face. “You've made yer point, sir.”

But Yondu wasn't done yet. “ _And,_ idjit, she says next time don't use string. Buy me some _anal beads_ or somethin' – pretty sure they do jewelled ones at the Xandar stalls, and they're more hygienic than anything you'd find on Knowhere -”

The door reeled open. There stood the yawning rookie from yesterday, who'd hailed the lift rather than tackling the tangled network of ladder chutes that peppered the _Eclector's_ floors.

Turning pale, she slapped the _close_ button and backed away. Yondu spared her a nod. Looked like she wasn't dying today.

“So something silicone, yeah?” he continued. “Which's either got a flared base or a damn sturdy cord. Gottit? Think you can store all that in here, numbnuts?” He rapped on Kraglin's temple.

Kraglin, whose smile looked disturbing dopy.

“'Next time'?” he said. When Yondu rolled his eyes and smacked him, he bore the blow with dignity.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Always remember to use proper anal toys, kids!**
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> **I feel like I owe this fandom an apology after writing this jfc**
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> ****


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